


Like Coming Home

by Sematary_22709



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, Young Frodo Baggins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sematary_22709/pseuds/Sematary_22709
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin survives the Battle of the Five Armies, but this leaves unanswered questions between him and Bilbo who shared their affection for one another as Thorin lay dying.  Now, as Bilbo leaves for The Shire and Thorin's kingdom begins its renewal, finding a way to be together is a quest all onto itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            Bilbo refused to leave Thorin’s bedside in the days to come after his final and nearly fatal battle with Azog.

            He’d dragged a chair from another tent to the side of Thorin’s cot and sat, feet swinging, unable to touch the floor, squeezing Thorin’s hand softly every few moments. He never took his eyes off the bruised and bloodied face, fearful that without constant vigilance, he would flicker and disappear like a ghost.   

            When the healers came each day, they worked around Bilbo, for his presence seemed to keep Thorin compliant.

            On the first day, Bilbo was asked to leave and Thorin, usually deep in a feverish sleep, jerked away from the healers and snarled at them before Bilbo had rushed back in at the disturbance and taken his hand once more.

            The touch seemed to calm him, just as it had on the battlefield.

            Fear rose up like bile in Bilbo’s throat each time those moments replayed in his head and he asked the question of _what if, what if, what if._ What if Thorin had not made it back to him?

            Bilbo had seen Thorin collapse on the icy sheet that looked and felt like a place for death.  But the eerie whiteness from the depths of the frozen river and the emptiness in the air couldn’t keep him from running forward and throwing himself down beside Thorin. He glimpsed the dark stain seeping into the fabric of Thorin’s tunic, but no, this wasn’t _it,_ not _Thorin’s death_.      

            “Bilbo,” Thorin managed slowly, the word drawn out to incredible lengths. His smile was hopeful, even as the light in his eyes began to dull. 

            “You’re ok, you’re going to be ok,” Bilbo repeated like an incantation, placing a hand on Thorin’s cheek.  As he spoke his voice became more and more desperate.  

            Two fat tears dropped onto Thorin’s face, smearing the blood flecked over his skin. 

            “Do not cry, my dear burglar,” Thorin muttered, still smiling as he stared with such fondness and intensity into Bilbo’s bloodshot eyes. 

            “Don’t–,” Bilbo’s voice broke and he sobbed, “please don’t, we–we could have y-years, Thorin...”  His sobs became frantic; no more words could make it past his quivering lips.

            At the time, he didn’t think about the forwardness of his words, for he had not been speaking to Thorin King Under the Mountain, not Thorin the Leader of their Company. In Bilbo’s eyes he wasn’t even Thorin, Friend to Bilbo Baggins. 

            It was not the devotion to a king, a leader, a friend, or a brother that brought Bilbo to Thorin in that moment.  It was that way his heart thudded each time he caught sight of Thorin, a blush crossing his cheeks when Thorin looked his way, a need to be close to him, a need to protect him.   

            After facing trolls and orcs and goblins and a dragon, it didn’t frighten him, as in the past perhaps it might have, to realize that he was in love with a dwarven king, in love with Thorin Oakenshield.

            But he had never imagined he would be facing _this_.     

            “You…have been…the best part of my life,” Thorin struggled to say, his smile now fading. 

            “Thorin,” was all Bilbo could say from the weight of those words, “Thorin–“

            Thorin took a deep, shuddering breath and with it said slowly, “Bilbo, do you…not know of my affection for you?”

            And Bilbo saw in his mind’s eye, Thorin’s look of amazement, if not adoration, shining brightly through the sickness in his mind as Bilbo had shown him the acorn from Beorn’s garden.

            And Thorin went on, “You are everything…you have taught me love…and quiet kindness…I am sorry to have caused you such harm…brought you into such peril.”

            Bilbo wrapped his arms around Thorin’s shoulders, buried his face into his hair, their cheeks pressed together, tears still streaming between his closed eyelids.            

            He felt Thorin turn his head, his trembling breaths warming Bilbo’s neck.

            Bilbo turned.  In what he thought would be a final moment, he pressed his lips to Thorin’s. 

            If he had given even a moment’s thought before acting, he would have expected Thorin to feel cold.  But he was not. His lips were warm, inviting, like coming home after a very long day. 

            Bilbo heard approaching shouts and the pounding of boots on ice as he pulled away.

            “Bilbo!” someone called, sounding worried and frightened, but Bilbo could not pull his gaze from Thorin, whose eyes had closed. 

            Gentle hands pulled Bilbo away as Oin, Gloin, Bofur, and Dwalin stepped close. Bilbo’s head swam, his legs giving out from under him.  Darkness bordered his vision.

            They made their way back to the tents, worried whispers following behind as they carried Thorin, and Bilbo knew not whether he was alive or dead.

            

            On the evening of the third day after the battle Bilbo was jerked awake out of a restless doze, chin against his chest, still sitting in his chair.

            “Come now, lad, it’s time you get some decent rest,” Bilbo heard Balin say in an undertone, withdrawing the hand he’d placed on Bilbo’s shoulder to wake him. Bilbo looked around and saw Balin beside him and Dain standing near the end of the bed, observing his cousin. Gandalf waited silently in the opening of the tent.   

            “Thorin he–,“ Bilbo began, grogginess clouding his thoughts. 

            “He’ll be perfectly fine without company for a few hours,” Dain reassured him. A bit hesitantly, Bilbo slid off the chair but had to work hard to wrench his eyes away from Thorin’s gently sleeping form.

            “That’s right,” Balin said, patting his back as he dragged himself away.

            Gandalf steered Bilbo to a spare cot in an empty tent, and assured him once more that sleep would do him well.  Bilbo didn’t have the energy to argue, although the cot felt cold and unwelcoming as he pulled a threadbare blanket over his shoulders.  The emptiness inside of the tent seemed to grow huge, and Bilbo wished for nothing more than to feel Thorin’s hand still within his.

            He fell into an uneasy sleep filled with unpleasant memories replaying in his head until he was more exhausted when he awoke than he had been before he fell asleep. 

            And when he awoke, there was a feeling like a stone in the pit of his stomach. Remembering the past several days of countless hours sitting by Thorin’s bed, agonizing fear nearly drowning him, felt like trying to remember details of a dream that had been hazy to begin with.

            But after lying in his cot for several minutes, filtering through the last few indistinct days, the chatter and noise of early morning routines permeating his tent, the memory of his kiss with Thorin became clear and clean in his mind.

            He relived it, again and again.  It would not have to be his last memory of Thorin, but with this joyful realization, a question posed itself: _What are we to do now?_     

            He turned onto his other side, pulling the blanket right up to his chin and sighed, long and low.  Although he was still exhausted, he couldn’t manage to fall back asleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

            When Thorin was nearly healed, he was transported to the king’s chambers within Erebor, followed by his kin, who bustled about the halls beginning its restoration.  A roaring feast was in order to observe the crowning of their king.

            “It’ll be wonderful!  A welcoming back to Thorin _and_ to Erebor!” Dori sang.    

            The good smells of cooking food traveled through the corridors to the bedrooms and beyond.  Bilbo wandered out of his small bedchamber the morning of the feast, absorbing the sights of Erebor in its time of peace, so different from when Smaug ruled over it.  The halls glowed with candles in their brackets, and a warm feeling filled Bilbo up at the sounds of laughter and merry talk echoing through the caverns.

            Bilbo padded leisurely down a long hallway with doors leading off to other bedrooms. He took slow steps in the hope of savoring his time here. 

            Since they’d moved back into the dwelling and started the cooking, since the warming fires rose in all of the fireplaces, Bilbo found himself feeling quite homesick.  While he wished to stay here and watch his companions restore Erebor, and help if he could, he wished also to return to his hobbit hole where all of his own possessions and heirlooms lay.  A bit like a scolding, Gandalf’s voice came back to him then, _“…when did your mother’s dishes become so important?”_

And at that moment, the wizard himself crossed Bilbo’s path.

            “Ah, Bilbo,” Gandalf’s eyes twinkled at the sight of him, “care to escort me to the library? Gloin’s unearthed some old maps I’d like to take a look at.”

            Bilbo agreed and they began their descent down several floors. It was almost as if Gandalf knew what lay on Bilbo’s mind for, after several staircases, he asked, “So, Bilbo, what are your great plans now?”

            Bilbo cleared his throat and glanced up into Gandalf’s face, which for once wasn’t shadowed by his pointed hat.

            “I’m quite at a crossroads,” he confessed, watching as Ori and Nori came stumbling out of a passageway carrying a barrel of mead between them.

            The wizard didn’t say anything.  Bilbo gave him another sidelong glance and saw a sympathetic, perhaps knowing, look on Gandalf’s face.  Bilbo hoped, privately, that Gandalf would give him some insight, some advice as to what he should do. But Gandalf remained silent as they approached the library’s two huge oak doors, which were propped open. Oin and Dori stood sweeping up years of dust and dirt in the entrance. 

            “Well, I will be heading out within the week,” Gandalf told Bilbo, pausing before the threshold, “I must visit Rivendell once more, but if you choose it, I will escort you back to the Shire.”

            Bilbo looked up at him, pleadingly, a frown on his lips.

            “But I understand, too, if you wish to stay here.”  And with that, he turned and waltzed into the library, leaving Bilbo standing there feeling just as confused and frustrated as before their conversation. 

\-------

            Thorin eyed the crown set on a small table beside the bed in him chamber.

            The crown, a symbol of his place in his home once again, glistened even in the dim light, as if beckoning him.  But he did not pick it up.  

            The words that had spilled from him in his sickened mind filled his head again and he recoiled, turning away to face the wardrobe where a floor length mirror hung. He did not feel like a king in that moment. He cringed, tormented to recall. The dragon sickness had found a home in him much too easily.  Even now, the thought of the gold lying dormant beneath him sent a chill through his spine. Could he possibly face his companions now? He imagined them all seated around the great hall, looking up at him and remembering his greed, his cowardice, his madness. In his mind’s eye, he saw Bilbo’s face clearly shining out of the gloom.         

            A cool breeze swam through the room, making him shiver. 

            _The hobbit’s kiss._

Those words sprang to his mind as if the breeze had brought them with it.  He raised two fingers to his lips. 

He felt a different kind of uneasiness grow inside of him when thoughts of that last conversation came to him.  Embarrassment, this is what it was. He’d born what had felt like his soul to Bilbo in what he had thought were his last moments.   

            _Bilbo, do you…not know of my affection for you?_

            Thorin scowled and turned from the mirror.  What now would happen?  He had not seen Bilbo since his time spent in the tent, though he had greatly wished to. He had not yet had a chance to confront what he’d let slip.  It had worried him, possibly even stunted his healing, for a pain still eased in and out from his chest. But he could not let go of thoughts of the halfling.        

            Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

            “Come in,” he said in his usual low growl.  He turned and saw Balin enter the room. 

            “The feast is just about ready, we should start toward the great hall,” Balin said. Thorin nodded once, but didn’t move. He stared at the floor, eyes glazed over.

            Without preamble Balin said, “The hobbit is considering leaving Erebor.”

            Thorin’s eyes snapped up, his pulse accelerating.

            “Gandalf told me,” Balin said without question, “and I will not pretend I’m not worried what that may do to you.”

            Thorin didn’t respond.

            “Will you ask him to be your consort?” 

            Thorin finally met Balin’s concerned gaze.  Yes, thoughts of sharing his wealth and power with Bilbo had occurred to him, but to be asked out loud in such a frivolous manner felt indelicate. A semblance of annoyance flared within him.

            “Why would you say _that_?” he asked, attempting to sound flippant, as if he hadn’t even considered such a thing.

            But Balin just raised his eyebrows and waited.

            Finally, Thorin’s shoulders slumped.

            “Is it so obvious?” Thorin growled.

            “Not to everyone,” Balin said fairly, “but the gift of a mithril shirt speaks wonders…”     

            Thorin’s cheeks burned at the thought of the other dwarves looking at him and snickering behind his back as though he were a lovesick child and not their king. His frustration and growing anger must have shown on his face because Balin quickly said, “And no one would think twice if you were crowned with the hobbit at your side; you are very loved among all of us, I hope you know that.”

            “Am I still?” Thorin asked, his voice heavy.

            “You were not yourself before the battle,” Balin said comfortingly, “and this is understood. You fought bravely and fiercely, as we all knew you would.”

            Small relief spread through Thorin and seemed to dull the pain of shame.


	3. Chapter 3

            It wasn’t until the great feast, when all the dwarves, Bilbo, Gandalf, and Tauriel, who had remained by Kili’s side during his recovery, congregated in the great hall, that Bilbo realized he’d been avoiding Thorin.  As he’d wandered the halls of Erebor, he’d silently hoped not to run into him. As he’d talked joyfully with the other companions, he had hoped that none of them would mention Thorin. He did not like thinking of the unanswered questions between them, though they seldom left his mind. 

            Even now, at the long, stone table with Thorin at the end, he found it difficult to look his way, afraid of catching his eye and seeing dismissal.           

            Bilbo sat near the middle on one side between Bofur and Gandalf. Thorin stood up, and silence fell. He raised a goblet and his voice rang through the hall as he said, “For too long have we been without home, but now, here, the comforts of home, friends, and family shall remain with us, and we will rebuild greater than ever before!” 

            The dwarves cheered in response and drank heavily from their goblets.

            “Let us eat!”

            The food was the best Bilbo had had since leaving Bag End. He couldn’t believe how much he had missed having a home cooked meal.    

            Finally full to bursting point and feeling quite tired, Bilbo excused himself and slunk out of the hall, hearing the festivities continue on in his absence, as dwarves were not ones for ending parties early. 

            “Back to your room already?”

            Thorin’s voice was low but rang clearly through the passageway. Bilbo turned to see him standing at the other end, his fur coat thrown over his shoulders, making him appear larger, more majestic.

            “Thought I might,” Bilbo said, smiling shyly as Thorin made his way toward him.

            “Did you get enough to eat?” although Thorin’s voice was casual, his eyes twinkled as he looked down at Bilbo. 

            “I’m stuffed right up, thanks,” Bilbo said heartily, patting his belly and chuckling. 

            Thorin returned the smile, “good.”

            Silence fell between them.  Bilbo was very aware of their proximity in the small passageway and Thorin’s looming figure above him. 

            “I’d like to thank you,” Thorin said.

            “For what?” Bilbo’s forehead creased as he stared unblinkingly into Thorin’s face.

            “For your companionship on the battlefield, it was…” but Thorin stopped himself, “just…thank you.”

            “Of course,” and Bilbo’s words were almost a whisper. Thorin took a step closer.

            “We haven’t had a chance to speak properly since…” Thorin trailed off and Bilbo just nodded, his eyes unconsciously flickering between Thorin’s lips and his eyes.   

            The sounds of the party felt very, very far away.  They could’ve been miles apart from everyone else. 

            And here, away from everything, Bilbo found his courage to speak, “Did you mean what you said then?”

            Thorin stared down at him, but Bilbo couldn’t decipher the look he gave him.

            “Every word.”  

            Tentatively, Thorin lifted a hand and Bilbo didn’t move as he brushed two fingertips across his cheek.

            He allowed, even beckoned for, Thorin to lean down to his level, their noses brushing. Bilbo’s eyelids fluttered shut as he felt the briefest touch of Thorin’s lips on his own.  His heart pounded against his ribs and he wanted nothing more than to hold onto Thorin and lock their mouths tightly together. But Thorin pulled back very slightly so that they weren’t touching, and only their breath mingled. Bilbo reached up, still very hesitantly, and settled his small hands into the fur collar around Thorin’s neck.

            _Kiss me more, kiss me always._ Bilbo wanted to tell him this.

            Thorin’s hands wrapped around Bilbo’s back and Bilbo pushed himself up onto his toes and found Thorin’s mouth with his own.  Thorin was breathing heavily.  Bilbo nearly lost his balance, but Thorin held him steady as they kissed and kissed.

            Words seemed to hang between them, many words making up many conversations that they could have been having in that moment but were taken over instead by the small touches, the intimate presses of lips on lips, hands on hair, hands on waist.  Their warmth brought life and color back into each other’s cheeks and Bilbo hadn’t realized how alone he’d felt before this moment.   

            They finally broke apart, but Bilbo did not want to let go of him quiet yet.

            “Will you not stay here…Master Baggins?” Thorin’s voice was low, a whisper of a quiet request. His fingers trailed lightly over Bilbo’s cheek and down to his jaw, gentle touches for such large, strong hands. Bilbo thought his heart might just burst.

            He opened his mouth to say _yes, yes of course,_ when the image of a circular green door set against the side of a hill stopped him.

            The memory of all of his belongings, his books, his family’s furniture and heirlooms, his home back in the rolling green hills of The Shire came bubbling to the surface, filled with sentiment. 

            “I have everything to offer you here,” Thorin told him, seeming distraught at his hesitation. 

            “I long to see the Shire again,” Bilbo began, “if not just to pack up and come right back here, I–I need closure with my old home, if I don’t go back now I fear that I will always be thinking of the Shire at the back of my mind.” Thorin looked pained, his jaw clenched.

            “I shall go with you,” he said, determinedly. 

            “You have much to do here,” Bilbo reminded him, although his chest ached even as he spoke, “Erebor can not be rebuilt without you, now can it?” Bilbo tried to smile, but he faltered at the look on Thorin’s face.  His mouth was set in a frown, his eyes bright and sweeping over Bilbo’s face, as if trying to memorize him. 

            “Being king under this mountain has been the most important thing to you since we met, and I expect before then too,” Bilbo tried to reason.

            “But, then we met,” Thorin said.  His face was self-deprecating, raw, and exposed.  Bilbo could not answer.

            “It will be a dangerous journey back,” Thorin went on.   

            “Not nearly as dangerous as our journey here, and anyway, Gandalf had said he will come with me.”

            Thorin nodded stiffly. 

            “But I will be back,” Bilbo promised, taking Thorin’s hand again in his own.

            The sounds of distant festivities reached their ears once again, and like that, they were bought back into the real world.  But Thorin did not break away from Bilbo.


	4. Chapter 4

            The dwarves saw off Gandalf and Bilbo at the gates several days following the feast.  They all engulfed Bilbo in a huge hug, clapping him on the shoulders and telling him to hurry back. 

            Then Thorin stepped forward.  Bilbo smiled up at him, though his smile poorly masked his sadness.  Thorin returned the smile kindly and pulled Bilbo into a hug. It was a different hug than the one they had shared at The Carrock, one that had been of forgiveness and new friendship. This hug was closer, filled with something like longing.  Bilbo blushed, wondering if perhaps it was only in his imagination.

            But as Thorin pulled away and his rough beard brushed Bilbo’s cheek, Bilbo suddenly wondered if in that moment, Thorin would kiss him again.

            He did not, however.  But as he drew back, he pushed something small and smooth into Bilbo’s hand, “To remember me by on your long journey home,” Thorin whispered.

            “I’m not going home,” Bilbo told him, “not until I come back here.”

            Bilbo thought he saw Thorin’s eyes grow misty before he turned away and got onto his pony. Gandalf was already atop his horse, watching the goodbyes.     

            The dwarves waved to them until they were out of sight of the gates.

            As they passed the city of Dale where workers could be seen repairing stonework and the smoke from lit campfires spiraled into the blue sky, Bilbo looked down at what Thorin had given him.

            It was a smooth, round black stone engraved with dwarven runes. Bilbo thought it looked familiar, thinking he might have seen Kili with something similar once.     

            Gandalf was watching Bilbo out of the corner of his eye.

            “What does this say?” Bilbo asked, holding the stone up to Gandalf. Gandalf took it and held it on his palm.

            “It says, ‘Amralime’.”  But Gandalf did not translate it further for him.

\----- 

            The five-month journey dragged on so that it was the beginning of summer when Bilbo finally arrived back in The Shire. 

            The feeling of familiarity comforted him as he and Gandalf rode along the winding paths between hobbit holes, passing by the Ivy Bush where hobbits sat outside smoking pipes and playing chess, glancing up at the newcomers. 

            He passed Hamfast Gamgee out in his yard with his young son and waved when Hamfast looked up.  He didn’t appear to recognize Bilbo at first, but waved politely back anyway. 

            Gandalf saw him to Bag End where they exchanged their goodbyes, Bilbo hugging the old wizard and thanking him for escorting him here. 

            “It was my pleasure,” Gandalf laughed, eyes twinkling, “I can be back here in several months time to take you back to Erebor.”

            “I’d greatly appreciate that,” Bilbo said.

  

            Bilbo took a deep breath before pushing open the door to Bag End. The inside was as he remembered it: spotlessly tidy, cozy cushions everywhere, old matching furniture belonging to Bilbo’s great-great-grandfather.

            But there was no warmth in the air here.  As Bilbo closed the door behind him, the bustling noises of everyday life outside were reduced to overwhelming silence.  A feeling of dread filled Bilbo.   

            It was as if Bag End had somehow died while he was away. 

            Or, he realized, gently hanging up his traveling cloak, perhaps something in _him_ had died, something that could never be returned to normal. 

            He shivered at the thought.  While his intention was always to return to Erebor, a part of him had been excited to return to a place he had always considered a home, a place where he had always found comfort. But here, the memories of comfort were all he had. 

 

            That night after stopping by the market to get some food, and being recognized by a couple of people, he made dinner alone, listening to the crackling of the fire for company, and got ready for bed. 

            He lay in his cold bed, turning over the stone Thorin had given him. He considered his feelings on returning to Bag End, and that perhaps having to rebuild a life elsewhere wasn’t so bad.  In fact, it would no doubt be easier to make a life in Erebor knowing that The Shire was no longer truly a home for him anymore.

            That was when he allowed his thoughts to turn to Thorin.  Every night on the journey back to The Shire, he thought of Thorin. Missing him hurt more the further away they’d gone from The Lonely Mountain.  As he remembered Thorin’s strong hands holding him tight, his bed didn’t seem so empty, and the loneliness abated a little.  He imagined kissing Thorin again on his return, the feeling of pure joy, of really coming home. 

            Only in the waking hours of the morning when there was no form lying beside him did Bilbo feel the full weight of their distance.

\-----

            In the two months since Bilbo’s departure, Erebor was slowly but surely returning to its former self.  But even at their progress, Thorin was becoming moodier by the day.  He felt Bilbo’s absence grow larger even though he knew that the sooner Bilbo reached The Shire, the sooner he would be returning.  And as that absence grew, a prickling feeling whenever someone mentioned the word _treasure_ had taken up residence.   

            But Thorin’s cousin Dain was visiting again from the Iron Hills that day and Thorin knew he would have to offer some kind of hospitality.

            “I see that Dale has gotten quite a bit done on their reconstruction, as well as in here, oh look at those,” Dain admired a pair of newly repaired pillars as Thorin greeted him in the entrance hall. 

            “It’s all been going fairly smoothly,” Thorin said, leading Dain into the great hall so that they might eat and talk.

            “Some families from Laketown have already taken up residence in Dale, I hear,” Thorin continued, sitting down at the long stone table and thanking Bombur who brought out steaming plates of meat and bread and tankards of beer.

            “And what of the treasure?  Still safe and sound?” Dain asked.

            Thorin had to work hard not to flinch. 

            “Yes,” was all he said.  Yes, the treasure was still deep in Erebor, calling to him when it thought no one else was listening. His heart pounded uncomfortably and he took a great gulp of beer in the hopes of steadying it.

            “You appear to be missing someone,” Dain commented as they ate. When Thorin looked confused, Dain continued, “The halfling.  You two were nearly inseparable after the battle.”

            Thorin’s face immediately turned stony.

            “I don’t mean to be indecent, cousin, but I expected to find you two in bed together any day now,” Dain chuckled.

            Thorin’s eyes blazed but Dain didn’t appear phased.

            “He returned to The Shire to set his affairs in order,” Thorin said shortly.

            “And then he’ll move back here?”

            “So it seems.”

            “That’s a long journey, isn’t it?  Quite a long wait as well.”

            Thorin avoided Dain’s eyes.  Yes, it was a long wait, much too long, almost unbearable.  He ripped a piece of bread in two but didn’t eat it.

 

            That night, he lay awake, turning from one side until he became uncomfortable, then turning back over onto the other side again.  He imagined what it must feel like to lay by Bilbo’s side, curled around him like a shield.  But imagining only twisted his stomach painfully when he was brought back into the reality of an empty bed.

            The answer to his discomfort, his pain, his longing, lay quite clear.       

  **  
**

            “You’re leaving?” Dwalin questioned impatiently.

            “I must,” Thorin answered shortly, not meeting his gaze, and throwing a black traveling cloak over his shoulders.  They stood in Thorin’s chamber; a bag at the end of Thorin’s bed was filled with food from the kitchens, spare clothes, and weapons. 

            “And what of Erebor?  What of your duties as king?” Dwalin shot at him.

            Thorin stopped moving and finally lifted his eyes to Dwalin’s, which were stormy and fixed on him, “I will return in 10 months time.  Dain will be supervising the restoration with Fili by his side, and I assume, you as well.”

            Dwalin snorted, “Is this really the time to be running off after a hobbit who left here of his own free will?”

            Dwalin’s words were sharpened by Thorin’s own feelings of insecurity.

            “I have made the proper arrangements,” he said, masking his unease, “and I am not the only king who leaves his kingdom during times of peace. I have every right to go!” His voice bit back and Dwalin fell silent.  Perhaps he saw the desperation in his king’s eyes or maybe he was just reluctant to continue the dispute, because he did not speak again, only bowed his great head.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I tried to approximate how long it would take to get from Erebor to the Shire and I’ve probably fudged those numbers to work a bit better, but since I don’t know exactly, I figured I could argue it. I'm sorry if it's severely off!


	5. Chapter 5

            An unexpected knock came to Bilbo’s door a month after returning to Bag End.  Many of his belongings were packed into trunks and traveling bags, so he had to scramble over some things in order to reach the door. 

            An old hobbit greeted him, tipping his hat and smiling grimly before saying, “Hello there, Bilbo.”

            “Ah, hello,” Bilbo said, rather unsurely.

            “It has been awhile, I’m Rorimac Brandybuck.  Mind if I come in?”

            “Oh! Rorimac, yes, please come in,” Bilbo stood aside as he quickly tried to remember his relation to this hobbit. Rorimac was Bilbo’s cousin of some sort, by marriage, he believed.

            “Care for a cup of tea?”

            “Oh no thank you, do you mind if we sit?” Rorimac asked. 

            Bilbo led Rorimac into the sitting room off the hall and they sat in opposite armchairs, Rorimac on the edge of his seat.      

            “I’m afraid I have some rather grave news,” he said stiffly. Bilbo waited, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.  _What now?_

“Drogo and Primula Baggins have been killed in a boating accident.”

            “O-oh, oh my,” Bilbo’s head reeled. 

            “And while all of The Shire will be grieving their loss, none more than their son, Frodo.”

            “Of course,” Bilbo said, still shocked.  He’d known Drogo and Primula well enough, but had only met their son once that he could recall. 

            “Frodo very dearly needs a home, and someone who can care for him as a parent, as a guardian,” Rorimac looked pointed, “and since you are his cousin, and quite well off,” Rorimac cleared his throat as he looked around the well-decorated interior, “it was believed that you may be the best fit for him.”

            “I–I,” Bilbo’s thoughts immediately raced with excuses: how he’d be on his way back to Erebor soon, how he wasn’t fit to be a guardian to anyone, there was too much adventure in him, how The Shire did not feel like home anymore. But even as his head filled with justifications, he found himself unable to voice any of them. 

            “Of course I will,” Bilbo said softly. 

            “Thank you so much, Bilbo, it will mean the world to him.”

            Bilbo could barely get out a ‘thank you’ before Rorimac was gone.

  

            Frodo, barely twelve years old, which in hobbit years was quite young still, arrived on Bilbo’s doorstep and immediately threw his arms around Bilbo’s waist and said, “Uncle!” 

            Bilbo dropped to one knee and embraced the young hobbit.

            “Let’s get you settled in, then.”

            Bilbo soon learned that Frodo was a rambunctious young hobbit, much more even than other hobbits his age.  He was a bit of a troublemaker, overly fond of practical jokes, but Bilbo was filled with such joy each time he laid eyes on him, whether he was fishing by the stream, playing with Samwise Gamgee, or walking through the woods kicking rocks as Bilbo recounted stories to him, which Frodo couldn’t seem to get enough of. It came apparent to Bilbo that Frodo may have been pushed onto him by relatives less enthused by the idea of a mischief-maker in their home.  But Bilbo liked Frodo, in all his rule breaking ways.  They fit into each other’s lives quite well.     

            But as the weeks passed, it became clear to Bilbo that the addition of a very young hobbit was more work than he’d initially realized.  He tried not to think about it, but as time went on, Bilbo’s hope of returning to Erebor, returning to Thorin seemed to evaporate.

            With a heavy heart, one afternoon while Frodo was taking a nap, Bilbo sat at his writing desk, unrolled a sheet of parchment, dipped his quill in some ink, and began: _Dear Thorin,_

Then stopped.

            He went over possible next lines in his head:

            _I regret to inform you…_

_I’m sorry to say…_   

            _Unfortunately…_

            He took a deep breath and finally settled on:

            _I miss you dearly, and so it is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that I cannot come back to Erebor this year as I had planned.  I have been given guardianship of my cousin Frodo, only twelve years old, after his parents died. I feel that it is my duty to remain in The Shire until_

But he couldn’t continue. 

Their last touch, last kiss, felt like a lifetime ago.  Bilbo bent his head over his crossed arms and wept and wept, tears smudging the ink, until he had nothing left in him but heavy breaths.

            He left the letter on his desk, unfinished.              

\-----

             The day finally came when Thorin arrived at Bag End.  However, after rapping on the door for several minutes, he found that Bilbo was not, in fact, home.         

            Frowning, he turned to find two hobbit women at the gate staring up at him with identical expressions of awe on their faces.    

            Thorin cleared his throat and asked, “Could you tell me where Mr. Bilbo Baggins might be?”   

            The women exchanged a bewildered look.  He knew the sight of him was possibly alarming, a dwarf twice as wide and nearly half a foot taller than all the hobbits here, and wearing a great billowing traveling cloak; he’d gotten stares since entering The Shire. He stood tall nonetheless on the hill above the hobbits, waiting for their response.

            “Mr. Baggins sometimes heads off to the stream around midday with young Frodo,” said one of the hobbits, a little uneasily under Thorin’s stare.

            “Thank you,” he grunted, brow still furrowed, and the hobbits hurried off before he could question them further.   

 

            Quite excitedly, the two hobbit women diverted from their late afternoon walk and hurried along to The Ivy Bush, Hobbiton’s primary inn, as well as a main site of gossip within Hobbiton. 

            “What’ll you have, Bell?” asked the tavern keep when they’d entered the inn, “it’s a bit early, isn’t it?”

            One of the hobbit women, Bell, waved her hand to quiet him and said, excitedly, “There was a _dwarf_ looking for Bilbo Baggins up at Bag End just now.”

            Several of the hobbits at the bar turned at her words, looks of interest on their faces.

            “A dwarf?”

            “At Bag End?”

            “Well, what’s he doing here?”

            “I don’t know,” said Bell, shrugging and looking bemused, the other hobbit woman, Pansy, shook her head. 

            “He was the strangest sight,” Pansy said, Bell nodding in agreement.

            “Well we know Bilbo went off with a party of dwarves nearly two years back, didn’t he?”

            “So he says,” Bell shrugged.  The inn fell into excited chatter, and soon the entirety of Hobbiton would be bursting with this new gossip.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had to alter some things from canon (you know, they call it an AU for a reason I suppose), such as the age that Frodo was when Bilbo adopted him, and also the circumstances under which he was adopted. Originally when I did my research I found that Frodo was something like 21 and Bilbo was 90-something when he took him in, so I immediately discarded the idea of having a young Frodo, but the idea kept coming back and I’ve altered enough canon events that I thought it would work within this story.


	6. Chapter 6

            Back at Bag End Thorin was debating whether to go look for Bilbo or wait for him to return with…what had been the name? Frodo?  Who could that possibly be?  A bolt of jealousy shot through him.

            But he sat stubbornly on the top step, a nervous flutter in his stomach as hobbits passed by on the path, trying to look at him discreetly behind baskets and cows they were leading behind them.         

            He waited for what felt like hours, the sun was passing hot overhead, and the path by Bag End was as crowded as ever.  He’d seen several familiar faces pass by multiple times, looking at him then scurrying on when they saw him looking.  But still, no Bilbo. 

            Finally, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the road leisurely walking toward Bag End.  Thorin stood. As Bilbo came closer, hiking along with a walking stick, he suddenly stopped.  Thorin saw his mouth open in apparent shock.             

            “Thorin!” Bilbo cried with a gleeful, blazing look on his. Bilbo’s walking stick clattered to the ground as he ran forward.  Thorin came quickly down the steps, his heart constricted at the sight of Bilbo’s pale, joyful face. He collided into Thorin full force and threw his arms around his neck. 

            Thorin would’ve much preferred to have had their reunion in the privacy of Bilbo’s home, and not in front of a dozen hobbits to witness their affection. But nonetheless, he exhaled a long, contented sigh and wrapped his arms around Bilbo.

            “I have missed you,” Bilbo whispered into his ear.  When they pulled apart, Thorin had a bewildered look on his face and his breath seemed to have caught in his throat.  He reached out a hand and cupped Bilbo’s face. A wide grin spread across his face as Bilbo turned unconsciously into his palm. 

            “My dear Bilbo.”

            “You came all this way?” Bilbo asked in wonder.  Thorin opened his mouth to respond, but suddenly felt incredibly awkward in the middle of the path.

            It was only when they’d drawn apart that they noticed all of the eyes that were on them.

            “Do you mind if we go somewhere more private?” he asked in an undertone.

            “Of course, of course,” Bilbo said, practically giddy, glancing over his shoulder at the other hobbits pretending to go about their business.

            Thorin followed Bilbo up to the round green door and for the second time in his life, stepped over the threshold of Bag End.  The house looked slightly disheveled now, half of Bilbo’s items in bags and trunks. He remembered it being spotlessly clean and tidy, although crowded at the time with twelve other dwarves and a wizard.

            It struck him how odd the simple act of walking through a doorway could prompt his imagination: he and Bilbo dining together at the little wooden table near the fireplace, him watching Bilbo read his books in his armchair, he and Bilbo waking early to take a walk at sunrise.  There was something familiar in the way Bag End felt; it held a quiet sort of domesticity.        

            The door closed behind him and Bilbo beckoned him to follow into the parlor saying, "How long have you been waiting?”

            “Not long,” Thorin said.  Then Bilbo stopped and turned to him.  He looked Thorin over with something like awe turning up the corners of his mouth. Thorin could only too easily imagine seizing him, kissing him, and if he was being completely honest, taking him to bed as he’d been picturing for the past many months. 

            Bilbo, still smiling, reached for him.  Thorin complied and stepped forward, leaning down and gently touching his forehead to Bilbo’s.  Bilbo sighed contentedly.   

            “I have missed you too,” Thorin muttered, watching Bilbo’s pupils dilate as Thorin slid his hands around Bilbo’s waist. 

            Bilbo bit his lip. 

            And in one swift movement, Thorin’s mouth covered Bilbo’s, and they were kissing heatedly, with enough desire to fill the last many months they’d been separated. Thorin nearly lifted Bilbo off his feet in his enthusiasm, feeling Bilbo’s soft lips part beneath his and a small, whimpering ‘umph’ escaped Bilbo’s throat, sending a pulsing shiver through Thorin.  He pressed Bilbo back against the doorway to the kitchen, their bodies fitting together, rutting against one another.  Bilbo clutched at Thorin, pulling him as close as they could be like this. 

            Thorin wanted Bilbo like he had never wanted anyone before.

            Thorin broke the kiss to place small kisses at the corner of Bilbo’s mouth, along his jawline, feeling Bilbo arch against him and let out small gasps as Thorin’s lips trailed down his neck.  

            As Thorin came back up to kiss him properly, Bilbo murmured against his lips, “I meant to make you dinner before this.”  Thorin chuckled, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, the other hand around his waist, enveloping him. 

            “Would you rather we…” Bilbo began, his eyes flicking to the doorway where Thorin knew, down the hall, his bedroom lay.

            Thorin’s stomach flipped over, all dignity lost as his ears went red to match Bilbo’s flushed cheeks.  Thorin answered by pulling him into another kiss. 

            Suddenly, a knock came at the door. 

            They instantly jumped apart. 

            Breathing heavily and wide-eyed, Bilbo quickly flattened his hair tousled by Thorin’s fingers and straightened his shirt with trembling fingers. Thorin stood back, looking equally ruffled and flustered. 

            “Oh bloody…, Thorin, I–I got completely distracted, I meant to tell you…” there was another knock at the door.

            Bilbo took several more deep breaths, attempting to compose himself, then walked to the door and pulled it open.

            “Hello Gaffer, Sam, Frodo,” Bilbo said in his usual, friendly, voice, though he was still breathing rather harder than usual. Thorin rested against the doorway, letting his head fall back, inwardly cursing.

            A small hobbit with rosy cheeks and wavy brown hair ran inside.

            “Uncle! I lost my wooden sword,” the brown-haired young hobbit said, his eyes brimming with tears.

            “Oh, Frodo, I’ll make you another, don’t worry,” Bilbo said, patting him on the top of his curls.

            “Thanks for looking after him for the day,” Bilbo said to someone outside of the door.

            “You planning on coming to the bonfire tonight?” Thorin heard a voice ask.

            “Oh! Please Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo cut in, face now void of tears, nearly vibrating with excitement, all thoughts of his lost sword apparently gone.

            “Yes, alright,” Bilbo said to Frodo, “Do you want to say goodbye to Sam?”

            Frodo turned back around and waved.

            Thorin watched all of this in complete confusion.   

            When they’d finished their goodbyes Bilbo closed the door and said, “Frodo, there’s someone here for you to meet.”  

            Frodo looked curiously around, and his eyes fell on Thorin, who stepped forward at last.

            “Thorin! Thorin who fought the dragon!” Frodo screeched as young children usually do in their excitement and he ran forward.

             “Thorin, this is my cousin Frodo who is under my care…and I may have told him a story or two,” Bilbo said sheepishly.  Thorin crouched to Frodo’s level and allowed himself to be hugged, placing a tentative hand on Frodo’s back.  

            “Hello, Frodo,” Thorin said in his deep voice, a kindly smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.   

            “Have you come all the way from The Lonely Mountain?” Frodo asked excitedly. 

            “I did, all the way from Erebor,” Thorin’s smile widened.

            “Did you have to fight orcs?” Frodo said, raising his arms up in a mock-fighting stance. 

            “Come on, Frodo, go get changed out of those dirty clothes,” Bilbo said, chivying Frodo away.

            “A hobbit after your own heart,” Thorin said to Bilbo when Frodo had run off down the hall.  Bilbo smiled briefly, but his eyes turned away from Thorin’s.

            “Frodo’s parents died about a month ago,” Bilbo told him, “I had to take him in.” It sounded like Bilbo was trying to excuse his actions, as if he hadn’t done something noble.

            “That was very kind of you,” Thorin said, and he meant it.

            But now, winding paths of possibilities lay between them, and Thorin was too afraid in that moment to ask him: _But does this mean you will still return to Erebor with me?_

            “I’ll start dinner, then,” Bilbo said softly.

 


	7. Chapter 7

            Between dinner and supper, Thorin sat Frodo on his knee and told him wild tales of his travels in Middle Earth. To Frodo’s great excitement, Thorin imitated the low growls of orcs and recalled the details of vast mountains and forests.  Frodo clapped and clamored for more whenever a story ended and Thorin felt himself growing fonder and fonder for the little hobbit. 

            But he still did not ask Bilbo the question. 

        

            After supper, they walked side-by-side, Frodo running up ahead, to the bonfire celebrating the coming fall months.  Thorin noticed Bilbo’s hands were knit together behind his back, and he wondered briefly, if Bilbo was having the same trouble as he was not to grab his hand and hold it as they walked.  

            Thorin averted his eyes however, and took in Hobbiton as Bilbo pointed out the sights to him: the forests, the fields, the Party Tree, the hobbit holes of neighbors he’d known for many years.  The sun set over Hobbiton, the sky a brilliant pink and orange, wispy gray clouds disappearing as dusk drew near.  Thorin’s heart felt very full as he looked out across the hills and felt Bilbo’s closeness.      

            This had always been home for Bilbo.  He wondered, was he kidding himself thinking Bilbo could be happy in Erebor?    

            They arrived in the South Field not far from Bag End and across the way from the Party Tree where a bonfire blazed, surrounded by logs split in half for seats and a great long table filled with food and barrels of ale. Hobbits of all shapes and sizes danced about, some singing, others eating and laughing.        

            Frodo ran up to a group of other hobbits his age who were playing a game with marbles on the grass.  As Bilbo and Thorin passed the food table, several hobbits greeted Bilbo. 

            “Bilbo! How are things with Frodo?” asked a hobbit with a pug-like face and wild black hair kept down by a huge yellow hat.

            “Doing just fine, thanks, Lobelia,” Bilbo said nodding and trying to move past.

            “And who’s this?” she asked with great interest, blocking their way and looking up at Thorin.

            “This is Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo said, “Thorin, this is my cousin Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.”

            “How do you do,” Thorin said politely, inclining his head.

            “Thorin Oakenshield?  Where have I heard that name before?” she said.

            “No idea,” Bilbo said tiredly, “We’ve got to get going,” and he hurried Thorin away from her before she could corner them further. 

            “Always so nosy...” Bilbo whispered to Thorin, rolling his eyes. Thorin chuckled.

            Other hobbits came up to them, jovially welcoming Thorin, wanting to hear why he was here, where he’s from.  Thorin answered politely each time, that he was visiting his friend, Bilbo, from the East.

            He felt awkward at first, sticking out among the hobbits, drawing their eyes. He wondered if this was how Bilbo felt as one of the companions on the quest.  He felt lighter in remembering those days.  Though perilous they were, they had brought him a hobbit who had proved himself, his courage and strength, in saving Thorin’s life. The spark, yes, he realized that now. Their first embrace was the spark of all of this.  He recalled the pang in his chest looking at Bilbo from afar, needing to be close to him, to protect him. On more than one occasion he’d felt the fool around Bilbo, and he was sure the others noticed.  But, finally, now…     

            They sat down on a log after everyone seemed to have gotten the answers they were looking for. The bonfire drew out shadows across the hills and trees, but the songs and laughter brought nothing but joy into them. They shared a smile, then turned away, afraid of eyes on them.  Thorin felt Bilbo’s hand nudge his thigh on the log next to him, hidden by the shadows. Heart pounding, Thorin slid his hand into Bilbo’s, interlocking their fingers. 

             “The Shire really is beautiful,” Thorin told Bilbo.

            “It is, yes,” Bilbo said wistfully.    

           

            Back in Bag End, within Bilbo’s room Thorin waited for Bilbo to return from putting Frodo to bed.  Thorin felt unusually nervous standing by the window where a cool breeze brushed against his bare arms, for he’d removed his coat much earlier in the day.  Night had fallen, summer had come and gone, and Thorin glanced at Bilbo’s bed, imagining, wondering.

            _What would it feel like?_

_Bilbo’s hands gripping his back, their bare chests pressed together, Bilbo’s legs wrapped around Thorin’s waist, their lips parted and…_

Suddenly, he heard footsteps returning and stood straighter, again feeling out of place. Bilbo appeared around the corner of the doorway and smiled when he saw Thorin.  Thorin noticed his smile appeared nervous as well, or perhaps he was just imagining how his own smile must look. 

            They stood motionless for several moments.  Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, and Thorin wished for anything to break the silence.  But Bilbo closed his mouth, and instead walked forward to the window. 

            “Can’t see much out there tonight,” Bilbo mentioned, glancing into the darkness, “the clouds have moved over the moon, I suppose.”  Thorin felt Bilbo’s heat, so close to him.

            “So no one can see us?” Thorin asked in a low, gruff, voice that hinted at jest. By the glow of the lantern on the bedside table, Thorin thought he saw Bilbo’s ears redden.

            “Frodo’s asleep?” Thorin asked, voice lower than usual.

            “Frodo’s asleep,” Bilbo said barely above a whisper, his eyes on Thorin’s lips.

            They nearly fell forward into each other, mouths easily finding one another as they embraced closely, each curve of Bilbo’s body finding a hold on Thorin’s. Any dismaying feeling or question about their future that Thorin had was suddenly nonexistent, swept from his mind.

            The bed cushioned them as Thorin gently pressed Bilbo across it. Bilbo trembled slightly and Thorin drew back.  

            “Are you afraid?” Thorin asked in the lowest whisper, barely audible. 

            “No,” Bilbo breathed, “I’m not afraid of much anymore” and his face broke out in a grin.

            Thorin let out a soft laugh and leaned back down to kiss him, relaxed and unhurried.       

           Their clothes seemed to unravel off of them, small buttons undone with care, and shirts pushed free from shoulders.  It felt a lot like freedom to Thorin.  Here, the responsibilities of a kingdom and a guardianship were as distant as the moon.  For this was celebration; it was finally, _finally_ , their time to be alive together.  No more worries of death or destruction in this small room in a hobbit hole. After a companionship transformed into whispered confessions of affection, their journeys had come full circle back to this place, here, in Bag End where they’d first laid eyes on one another. Bilbo was no longer a small, easily dismissed hobbit fearful of adventure.  And Thorin cared more for another person than any homeland or treasure he could ever imagine.

            The sheets draped over them, bodies pressed together, moving steadily as they kissed and gasped quietly into each other’s mouths.

            “Umph…Is that alright?”

            “Yes, that’s right.”

            “Does it hurt?”

            “No, no it feels…ah, good.”

            Slow and soft, tentative at first grew into heated and comfortable, clutching one another, hands tangled in hair, Thorin’s beard brushing Bilbo’s jaw, his neck, his collarbone followed by panting and soft moans against one another. They fell into a rhythm, pressing and pulling, it felt so good, it felt so right…     

            Thorin fell into a string of Khuzdul; he couldn’t help it.  Chests pressed together, lips beside Bilbo’s ear, he muttered phrases between moans, ‘I love you’, ‘like that’, ‘you’re perfect’, ‘you’re amazing’, ‘Bilbo, my love, my love.’

            He knew Bilbo had no idea what he said, but he hoped he knew what it meant.    

 


	8. Chapter 8

            Bilbo awoke as the sun peeked in through his gently fluttering curtains.  He didn’t immediately remember why he felt so content.  But as drowsiness left him, he became aware of Thorin’s weight beside him, their heads angled toward one another, gently touching. Thorin slept still, his breathing even and steady, but Bilbo knew Frodo would be awake soon. 

            Cautiously, Bilbo slid out of bed and retrieved fresh clothes from the wardrobe. After wrapping himself in his robe, he went to the kitchen to start a fire in the hearth. 

            When he started the bacon and eggs he heard the padding of feet on the hardwood and turned to see Frodo enter the kitchen, hair tousled and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.  They exchanged ‘good mornings’ and Frodo set out three place settings in the dining room, “Thorin’s still here isn’t he?” he asked, sounding slightly worried.

            “Yes, he’s still here,” Bilbo answered, lifting the bacon out of the pan.

            “Good,” Frodo said, grinning. 

            “I’ll go and fetch him, you keep an eye on the coffee, and don’t get your hand anywhere near the fire,” Bilbo said, turning to leave the room.  He was about to enter the bedroom when he passed the study, and saw Thorin’s figure standing at his desk.

            “Oh! Thorin, I didn’t think you were up yet,” Bilbo said good-naturedly.

            But when Thorin turned, his face was fraught with distress.   

            “So you mean not the return, then,” Thorin said miserably, every word sounding like it pained him.  He held Bilbo’s unfinished letter in his hands.

            Bilbo’s heart sank, “Thorin…”

            The night before had been driven by desire and their happiness to be reunited. All thoughts of what the future held had been clearly driven from their minds, and it was crashing down all around them now.

            Thorin looked away, “I fear now that this visit was unwarranted.”

            “What can you possibly mean by that?” Bilbo laughed nervously, his eyebrows knit with worry.   

            “I came to bring you back to Erebor with me, I could not stand to be away from you for so long,” he clenched his jaw, then continued, “but I see now that you cannot leave.”

            “Thorin, I had planned all along to return to Erebor.  This,” Bilbo motioned to the study, “ _was_ home for me, but much has changed inside of me, and I can’t imagine not returning to be with you.”

            There it was.  _I want to be with you_ , _in every way possible._

            “But I fear Frodo will be resentful if I take him away from The Shire,” Bilbo said, pulling at a loose thread on his robe.

            “Do you believe he won’t feel welcome in Erebor?”

            “Of course not…” Bilbo said sincerely, meeting Thorin’s gaze, “I know he would be adored there, and a happy child and then you and I could…” but he blushed and didn’t continue.

            Thorin stepped forward then and put his hands on Bilbo’s arms, “Why don’t we let Frodo decide?”

            “Frodo? He’s so young, he doesn’t understand the consequences, he’ll just want to go on an adventure.”

            Thorin smiled at that.  Bilbo’s forehead creased and he gave him a bemused sort of smile.   

            “If I could,” Thorin began, his face falling again, “I would converge these two homes, bring Erebor to The Shire, if I could stay here forever then I would.”  

            “But you cannot stay here,” Bilbo said, voice barely above a whisper, “you’re king.”

            “I can stay for awhile longer, but yes, eventually I’ll have to return.”

            Bilbo’s face was pained.

            “I will visit every year,” Thorin said, each word sounding as if it was costing him his life.  Bilbo’s felt himself losing composure, “I can’t be away from you for so long.”

            Thorin gave him another look for adoration.

            “I love you,” Thorin said quite suddenly.  

            “I–of course I love you too, Thorin,” Bilbo said, his voice a strangled whisper, “I thought you knew.”  He stood on his toes and they shared a brief kiss. 

            “Why can’t we just go to Erebor and come back here to visit?” came another voice, and they both started and looked to the doorway.  Frodo looked in on them with curious composure.

            “What?” Bilbo said quietly.

            “That may be possible as long as the roads stay peaceful and free from danger,” Thorin said slowly, “but it may be many years until you see The Shire again.”

            “I don’t care,” Frodo said.

            “Frodo, you can’t…”

            “You should be together,” he said, “like my parents were.  People who love each other shouldn’t be apart.”

            Bilbo’s heart felt full to bursting point.   

            “You will be very loved in Erebor,” Thorin said, bending down to Frodo’s level. Frodo smiled. 

            “When do we leave?” Frodo asked excitedly.

\-----

            In the coming month, Frodo and Bilbo’s things were packed up. The furniture was staying in Bag End, and Hamfast Gamgee agreed to look after the gardening. When Frodo was old enough and wished it, he would move back to Hobbiton for a time. 

            On the day they were due to depart, Thorin went into the square to speak to a hobbit about procuring a cart.  Everyone greeted him on his walk; he’d become quite recognizable during his time here.

            As he was hitching his pony to the cart, a familiar voice came from behind him, “Thorin Oakenshield.  If someone had told me a year ago you’d be spending your nights in The Shire, hitching ponies to carts, I would have told them they’re mad.”

            Thorin turned and saw Gandalf standing tall beside his gray horse, a warm smile on his weathered face.

            “Gandalf,” Thorin said in greeting, stepping forward and allowing Gandalf to clasp his hand, “It is good to see you.”

            “As it is to see you, though I was surprised to hear that you had beat me to my task of escorting Bilbo back to Erebor.”

            “Yes. It became apparent to me that my place was here.” 

            “With Bilbo,” Gandalf finished for him, nodding approvingly.

            Thorin rode back to Bag End in the cart, Gandalf not far behind on his horse.

            “Gandalf!” Bilbo called in excitement when he saw them arriving as he was stacking his luggage trunks outside.

            Bilbo and Gandalf went into Bag End while Thorin loaded the cart. Bilbo started to make tea and Gandalf took a seat at the small dining table. 

            “I’m sorry I couldn’t find a way to contact you, Gandalf, there was no need for you to come.”

            “Don’t worry,” Gandalf smiled, “I always enjoy a visit to The Shire.”

             Just then, Frodo ran into the room, a small pack over his shoulder.

            “Ah, and you must be Frodo,” Gandalf said in a jolly voice, “Thorin filled me in on our way back here.”

            “Frodo, this is Gandalf the Grey,” Bilbo introduced, placing tea bags into the kettle.  

            Frodo’s mouth hung open as he stared up at the towering wizard, “Hello,” he said shyly, then ran off through the study.

            “You and Thorin have got your hands full,” Gandalf said, raising his eyebrows and smiling knowingly.

            “It’s been great actually,” Bilbo said, sitting down as well.

            “And when you get back to Erebor…what then?” Gandalf asked. 

            “Well, I…we’ll…” Bilbo stuttered for a moment, “W-what do you mean exactly?”

            “Well you and Thorin…are you prepared to be consort?” Gandalf asked, that knowing look in his eyes once more.

            “O-oh, I–,” Bilbo looked down at his hands, “I don’t actually know if...” and Bilbo trailed off.

            “Well do let me know when you do know,” Gandalf said, still smiling. Bilbo nodded.    

 

            Quite a few hobbits came to see them off as they wound through Hobbiton, waving goodbye, and Bilbo took his last look behind him. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

            This journey to Erebor felt different, lighter. No dragon lay at the end of the path, only home and good cheer.  Though the road was not free from peril; Thorin warded off a group of scavenging, wild wargs near Trollshaws, and it was a welcoming comfort when they reached Rivendell. Thorin was merely tolerant of the elven home, and seemingly fearful that Frodo and Bilbo would simply want to stay there.  But they moved on, after meeting with Elrond, who was very fond of Frodo. 

            It was a blessing when they actually got to sleep in beds in inns, and even more so if Thorin and Bilbo had a room to themselves.  They remained intimate when they could through the long journey, stealing kisses when they thought Frodo wasn’t looking.  At all times, Bilbo’s heart felt full and warm and right. 

            Frodo was awed by all they passed.  Though tired of travel, he never ceased to be amazed by the beauty of Middle Earth. 

            He began to call Thorin “uncle” a mere several weeks into their travels, and Bilbo could tell how pleased Thorin was by this.

          

            Three months into their journey and they were making their way to an inn on the outskirts of the Grey Mountains when they ran into real danger. The road was nearing complete darkness, the sky quickly turning to black, and only a few stars shone down on them. Frodo had begun to doze in the back of the cart and Thorin and Bilbo sat up front, leaning on one another. Even the pony seemed weary, walking at a slower pace than usual, but they hoped to find an inn soon, and so continued onward.  

            As they passed beneath trees, their branches bare, Bilbo thought he heard a rustling. But he was so tired, he decided not to mention it to Thorin whose shoulder he lay against.

            “Shouldn’t be much further,” Thorin muttered to Bilbo.

            “Mm,” Bilbo made a contented sound and nuzzled more into Thorin. He felt Thorin place a kiss onto the top of his head.   

            “Weary travelers, indeed,” came a sickly, slithering voice out of the shadows. Thorin and Bilbo shot straight up in their seats, eyes peeled.  Thorin’s hand immediately went for his sword. 

            Lanterns flared in the night, the light revealing a horde of wild-looking men; gray beards filthy and matted, faces cracked and weather-beaten. They stood like a wall on the path, and Bilbo heard more shuffling along the sides.  He reached back and gripped Frodo’s shoulder, as if afraid they would snatch him away.

            “Let us pass,” Thorin commanded in his roughest and loudest voice, “And none of you shall be slain.”

            The men cackled at that, jeering and shouting rude words. 

            “What can a small dwarf do against all of us?” taunted a man with the greasiest hair Bilbo had ever seen.

            “Not just a dwarf!” Bilbo shouted, adrenalin pumping through him.

            “What even are you?” the greasy man sneered.

            “He’s a halfling, and look!  In the back! A child shire-rat,” one of the other men called.

            Frodo had woken up, wide-eyed and scared, his face pale and unmoving. Bilbo still gripped his shoulder, his eyes darting back and forth from the men to Thorin to Sting, wedged between several trunks in the back of the cart.

            “Get him,” the voice was low from somewhere in the crowd but Bilbo heard it.            

            But before he could act, Thorin sprung from the cart, drawing Orcrist and with a flash, slit the throat of a man attempting to pull himself into the cart. The man’s body crumpled followed by cries of shock and anger.  Frodo sat, shaking, terrified.

            “You all would do well not to threaten him again,” Thorin growled, the sword pointing one-by-one at each man surrounding them, “For I am Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain of Erebor!”

            Bilbo watched as fear flickered in the faces of the men, certain that they knew they’d picked the wrong travelers to attempt to rob.

            And then they were fleeing, all of them, scampering away into the darkness, their hurried footsteps and shouts receding over the wooded hills.

            Thorin was shaking with anger when he returned to the cart. He snapped the reigns and clicked his tongue to the pony who tossed its head and began trotting at a quickened pace.

            “Frodo,” Thorin said softly over his shoulder, “Are you alright?”

            Frodo crawled to the front and squeezed in between them, “Yes,” he said, his voice shaky.

            “We’ve got you,” Bilbo consoled, putting a protective arm around Frodo’s shoulders.

            Bilbo had seen Thorin face horrific and ruthless monsters time and time again, and he had never before seen such ferocity in Thorin’s face.  

   

             After many long months, they finally arrived in the partially rebuilt city of Dale. It was not so much the dirty and decrepit place it had been the previous year; there was more bustle in the markets already, more people buying and selling. 

            As a dwarf and two hobbits, they received many stares as they disembarked at the gates. It was Bard, now overseeing the reconstruction, who welcomed them.

            “You should hear the townsfolk talk about you two, you know,” Bard shared over a warm meal that night.

            “I suppose it is a bit unconventional,” Bilbo reasoned, ears going a bit pink.   

            “Are you two going to be married?” young Tilda asked, head cocked curiously to the side as she surveyed Thorin and Bilbo.

            “Tilda, don’t be so nosy,” scolded Sigrid.

            “I love weddings,” sighed Tilda, moodily poking at a potato.

            “You’ve never been to one,” Bane said.

            “Well I _would_ love a wedding,” Tilda said, crossing her arms.  The siblings fell into bickering and Bilbo avoided looking at Thorin.

            Somehow it had felt obvious, marriage.  But suddenly he realized how unsure he was.

 

            That night, as Bilbo and Thorin readied for bed, Bilbo decided it had never done him any good to keep quiet about questions he had for Thorin.

            “ _Are_ you planning on marrying me?” he asked bluntly.

            Thorin, who had just lain down on the spare bed, froze, then slowly sat back up.

            “I didn’t know that there was any question about it,” he said, looking into Bilbo’s face. Bilbo felt relief flood through him, but also annoyance.

            “Well you could’ve at least asked me, so I knew for sure that that was your intention,” he said reproachfully.   

            Thorin cracked a grin.

            “Come now, let’s sleep,” he said, his voice low and sweet. 

            “How do I know that what you really want to do is sleep?” Bilbo mocked, climbing into bed and burrowing under the covers.

            “Because the walls in this house are much too thin,” Thorin chuckled softly, wrapping a tight arm around Bilbo. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

            By the time they were crossing the bridge to Erebor, the entire company stood outside the gates as Bilbo had remembered leaving them.  Word had obviously traveled of their return.

            Dwalin ran forward and nearly lifted Thorin out of the cart as he clambered down, embracing him heartily.  Bilbo and Frodo jumped down after him, Frodo’s eyes sweeping over everyone running forward to hug Bilbo and welcome him back.  Dain followed suit after Dwalin, hugging Thorin and clapping him on the back.

            “And who’s this?” Balin asked politely inclining his head to Frodo.

            “Thorin! Did you and Bilbo already start havin’ kids?” Dwalin called.  Several of the company snickered nearby and Bilbo went beet red.

            Thorin stood next to Frodo, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, “This is Frodo Baggins, Bilbo’s cousin.  He’s under our care now.”

            The others welcomed Frodo cheerfully, Bofur actually coming up and hugging him. Frodo’s face transformed into one of joy and lightness.

            “Thank you for greeting us, everyone,” Thorin said after the clamor died down, “but I think we’re all tired and would really rather like to rest.”

 -------

            “The dwarf lord took up with the hobbit?”

            “That’s what I said, didn’t I?” the townswoman whispered urgently to her husband behind their cart of woolen blankets and garments set along the side of the market.

            “You mean the little hobbit that was with all those dwarves in Laketown last year?”

            “Yes! The same.  And I heard today is their wedding day.”       

            

            Nearly everyone from Erebor to Dale, including Bard and his children, were in attendance to the wedding.  Bilbo suspected not everyone was there for the want to celebrate their love and see the king married, but more so the want to see a spectacle. Bilbo remembered Bard’s words, although said in casual conversation, _“You should hear the townsfolk talk about you two.”_   

            Well, they would certainly have something to talk about after today.

            His palms sweaty, Bilbo stepped from foot to foot at the side of the stone dais that had been arranged outside of the mountain.  He tried not to look at the gathering crowd. This would be their first time publically, openly, declaring not only their relationship, but their love for one another.

            Balin directed the ceremony, speaking openly of love.  And soon, both Bilbo and Thorin were directed to step up onto the dais. 

            When Thorin and Bilbo stepped up in front of everyone, suddenly all the whispering stopped, the questioning, the ‘really? the dwarf and the hobbit?’

            No one could any longer deny or question what lay between them. The light grew in each other’s eyes when they looked to one another.  And when their lips met, briefly, chastely, the crowd exploded in cheers.

           

            Bilbo and Thorin left their feast early, slipping away as they had done the after Thorin’s coronation feast.  But this time, there was no awkwardness, no uneasiness.  Thorin took Bilbo in his arms and they hurried away to their chambers.

            The king’s chamber, now the king and consort’s chambers Bilbo presumed, was filled with light when they arrived.  Someone had lit dozens of candles all around the room, the small flames flickering warmly against the stone walls.

             “You’re no longer under-hill, but under-the-mountain now,” Thorin said lightheartedly.

            “Indeed that’s true,” Bilbo chuckled, “And so I hope to be remembered as such.”

            Thorin tilted his head at him bemusedly.

            “I just mean…as a Baggins under the hill, I was a selfish hobbit,” Bilbo admitted, “I didn’t care to share my things or to help anyone but myself really. But as your husband, I think I’ve proven myself if I am to be worthy of Thorin Oakenshield.” 

            Thorin wrapped him up in his arms and kissed him, fingers gently tangling in his curls.  They moved back toward the bed and lay down, kissing gently. 

            Thorin pulled back only for a moment to say, “It is I who had to be found worthy of you.”

 


	11. Epilogue

            Back in Hobbiton, Frodo arrived on the back of a dapple-gray pony.  It had been nearly eleven years since his departure to Erebor, but The Shire still looked as it did in his dreams and memories. 

            His first stop after Bag End to drop off his things and greet his old him, was Samwise Gamgee’s house. 

            “Sam!” Frodo called to him as he approached the little hobbit hole. Sam was leaning against the fence to his garden, grinning.

            “Heard you were back,” Sam said.  They embraced, then made their way to the Green Dragon. 

            “Frodo Baggins?” questioned the bar keep, “Is it really you?”

            “It is, how are things?” Frodo asked. 

            The other people in the pub turned at hearing the name “Baggins.”

            Frodo and Sam sat at a table and were soon crowded, the other hobbits all asking him how he’d been, where he’d been, how his Uncle Bilbo was doing.

            “He’s doing quite fine, thanks,” Frodo said, raising a glass to the hobbit who had asked.

            “But where is he?  Last we saw of him he was heading off back with that dwarf!”

            Frodo enjoyed the looks of shock on their faces when he told them, “He’s married to the dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor.”

            “That’ll keep them talking for ages,” Sam muttered when everyone had calmed down enough to go back to their own tables.

            Sam then turned to him, “Think you’ll stay in The Shire?”

            “I will for a time, but I expect my uncle’s blood will get to me eventually and I’ll want to go running off after mountains and elves.”    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I feel more content after writing this story, and hopefully I won't feel as sad the next time I watch BOTFA.

**Author's Note:**

> I expect similar stories have been written, although I hope this story is primarily original in content. I started writing this almost as soon as Battle of the Five Armies movie came out and only picked it back up recently because the need for Thorin and Bilbo to be happy in at least one universe simply overcame me again. I do hope you enjoy it! And comments are always loved and welcome!


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